Landing
by Eladamri Dael'Oyos
Summary: Set in the Warhammer: 40,000 universe. A small desert base takes advsntage of an Ork attack and mutinies against an inept commander. Chapter 1 is up.


The desert air was stifling. The sun beat down on the tiny camp, blistering the sand and spinning it into tiny spiral designs that crunched underfoot. Every inhabitant of the outpost stood uneasily at attention, fidgeting and panting in the cruel heat; despite this, they all weathered the verbal punishment of a rotund, annoyingly loud man in sweat-stained dress blues.

"You call yourselves Space Marines? The Force Commander's shuttle is nearing, and you've let yourselves slip because of a little heat? Simply look up if you need to be reminded of what causes this weather!"

In the middle of the camp stood a massive plasma generator, thrumming and throwing off heat in great roiling waves. Normally, the desert's climate was bearable, but since the higher-ups had ordered the construction of this plasmatic monstrosity, the camp had been a hot hell. The marshal in charge had finally had enough of his men's gasped complaints, and finally brought the Force Commander down to lobby for the removal of the generator.

Even now the Commander's shuttle drew nearer, a molten star directly above the camp. The marshal had run greeting drills for days, eager to make a good impression for one of the Emperor's great consuls. He still berated the uncomfortable soldiers, sweat running down his flabby forehead.

"If one of the Emperor's generals sees this squad in such a miserable condition, that generator will never be removed," said the marshal, pointing at the great thing in the midst of them all, "and I will never be promoted! Get this camp _clean_, boys! _Dis_-missed!"

The formally orderly lines of soldiers dissolved into a shuffling chaos. Men ran this way and that, frantically cleaning themselves and their camp. In the midst of all this, a small transmitter on the marshal's wrist pierced the air with a shrill beeping noise. He looked at it for a moment, dumbfounded, and then shrieked orders to the men. "Disregard that last command! Initiate Protocol 36! _Take cover!_"

Every man in the camp dove for the nearest shelter, having drilled this situation countless times before. A deep rumble filled the air, drowning out all hope of conversation or further orders. The heat grew unbearable. Special cooling devices inside the shelters clicked on, sensing the increase in temperature. The sun seemed to turn everything to white, blotting out all views of the camp. Dust swirled chaotically. In the middle of all this, the men waited, dreading the next moment. All was silent for a split second.

And then, the world exploded.

A deafening noise rocked the camp. Nearby cliffs and rock formations were decimated as a wave of dust, heat and force roiled out from the camp. The men hit the deck, even hit by the wind inside the shelters. A man unlucky enough to not take cover was killed as the wind blasted through the narrow, slatted window where he watched. A million tiny particles of sand impacted him, stripping the flesh from his bones. He slumped in a bloody heap.

Just as abruptly as it had started, the chaos was over, replaced by an eerie silence. The men stood, shaking themselves, crossing themselves, and smacking deafened ears. A thick layer of dust covered all of them, and many had suffered wounds as the sand particles ricocheted around the shelters. Still, they shuffled their way into the parade ground, formed ragged lines, and surveyed the decimation.

Tents were pockmarked with holes from the violent wind. There were empty spaces where men's tents had once stood. A standard, bearing the Emperor's crest, lay tattered on the ground. The dead carcasses of a few horses lay in the stables.

In the midst of the camp stood the source of this destruction: A large, conical shuttle with the Empire's sigil emblazoned on the side. A sizable crater had been gouged out around it; the sand had turned to black glass that twisted and swirled in dizzying patterns. A faint smoke, smelling of acrid fuel, still hung in the fetid air. An indistinct tail still arced up into the sky, marking the shuttle's path to where it now lay.

As the men watched, a hydraulic gangplank swung down from the side of the shuttle. It impacted the ground hard, pulverizing the glassed sand beneath it with a distinct shattering noise. A few space marines encased in dazzlingly white suits hurried down the walkway, fanning out and searching for threats. Seeing none, they returned their weapons to the "port arms" position. One of them gestured toward the shuttle, and a new figure stepped out.

The Force Commander was truly a sight to behold. Clad in gleaming armor covered with intricate designs, he stood easily a foot taller than the marines around him. A voluminous crimson cloak cascaded down his back. A glowing, humming sword hung across his back, a gift of the Emperor to his trusted generals. He was completely bald and his bare flesh was twisted with scars. His left eye seemed to burn with righteous fire, but the right eye was completely white, scarred by a long, diagonal slash from ear to nose.

He spoke in a voice that was weathered by years of death, but seemed used to giving orders. "Excuse the damage. Which one of you is in charge here?"

The fat marshal stepped forward and snapped off a textbook salute. "Sir! Marshal Third Class Adrian Rapscata, reporting _sir_!"

"Very good, marshal," said the Force Commander, without even the slightest hint of conviction.

The marshal seemed oblivious to his superior's obvious sarcasm. "Thank you, sir! You know, I've been stuck here for, oh, about four years now, and I believe I have what it takes to be promoted!"

Once again the Force Commander adopted a sarcastic tone. "I'm sure you do, marshal Rapscata. However, that is not why I'm here. I'm assuming that this is the source of your problem?" he gestured towards the plasma generator.

"The men can't handle a little heat, Commander. I, on the other hand, have gotten quite used to it!" the marshal beamed.

'This is not what I'd call a_ little heat_, marshal. This is nearly unbearable! Surely one in your _lofty _position could see that!"

Leaving the sputtering marshal to his own devices, the Force Commander strode over to the scalding generator. Kicking it with a booted toe, he was rewarded with a great creaking noise that shook the entire structure to its roots. Shaking his head, he turned and called back towards the shuttle, "Servitors! Initiate Destruct Protocol!"


End file.
